Drink It All Away
by EnochianPizzaGirl
Summary: He'd lost his brother, he'd lost his angel, and his alcoholism gets the better of him. We all break eventually. Can be read as Destiel.


**Hey there, thanks for clicking on this. So this takes place around series eight in terms of timing, but it's not necessarily linked to what happens in the season. This isn't a death fic.**

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He rolled the bottle lazily in his hand as cheap bourbon burnt its way down his throat. He eyed his dwindling supply of liquor in the cabinet and knew he didn't have enough for what he needed. Anger surged through him as he stood up and hurled the bottle across the room. While he relished in the crisp sound of smashing glass as it hit the wall, the satisfaction of it was sort lived. Anger still brewed inside him. No matter how much he drank, he could get drunk. He'd been up since six and had been trying to drink himself back to sleep ever since. It was now almost sixteen hours later and his mind still felt as sharp as it had that morning. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stem the pulsing ache just behind eyes. The images of that night were still too vivid.

Another trip to the cabinet. He didn't even bother to look at the bottle he'd picked out, he merely unscrewed the lid and gulped it down, barely giving it time to touch his lips.  
He'd long since given up on actually tasting it, no, that took too much time. He stumbled back to his seat, a tattered thrift shop arm chair covered an ugly fabric and scorched patches, where cigarettes had carelessly been stubbed out. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a picture. A picture he'd not seen in a long while, despite it being next to him. Whether he'd simply forgotten its presence, or whether he'd purposefully cast it from his memory, he wasn't sure. He reached over and held it for a moment, before willing himself to look at it properly. Three smiling faces stared back at him. He set the bottle down so he could hold the photograph in both hands. It's was old and faded now, and had been left where the sun could bleach it.

"Damn it, Cas," he sighed, brushing a thumb over one of the faces and placing it back down on the table.

He could have sworn that he'd taken all of the pictures down months ago. He didn't like how their eyes followed him. Sam and Cas, he could almost feel them judging him. In the back of his mind, he knew that in reality, they wouldn't blame him, but that didn't stop the guilt. He'd lost his brother, he'd lost his angel, and now he spent his days alone, trying to drink it away. Drinking worked for Chuck back in the day, it even worked for Bobby at times. Bobby, there's another name to add to the list of people he'd failed. If he'd never made that deal, he'd have never gone to hell, he'd have never met Castiel, who never would have tapped into purgatory and release the Leviathans. Dick Roman would never have been a problem and never have killed Bobby. Of course Charlie, when she visited, would tell him that was ridiculous, but she didn't understand. No one did.

What would his father say now? "You did good, son." Nah. He'd tear him a new one. Getting him killed. Getting his brother killed, screwing up his one responsibility. Great work, Dean.

Another bottle down the hatch. His vision was blurred, but his squinting and rapid blinking cleared it up for a couple of seconds. He reached for a nearby can, but missed it by an inch or two. His arm dropped and he sighed in exasperation. Had it always been so cold? The tip of his nose, his fingers and toes felt numb. He drew in one slow breath after another.

A knock at the door. Was it Thursday already? He didn't move to answer.  
"Dean? Are you here?" He heard the voice call out to him once she had unlocked the door with her stolen key. It was Charlie, or was it? Charlie? What day was it again? The voice moved closer until it was right in front of him. Through glazed eyes, he saw a streak of red hair and a familiar brightly coloured jacket.

"Dean, it's me, Charlie. Are you alright? Look at me," he lifted his chin a little and looked over his pale, clammy face. "Your lips are blue." She noticed the smell, "Have you been sick?"

"Sssnothin', 'sssokay," he slurred in a daze.

"Here," she shrugged of her jacket and draped it over him, "I'll be right back," she made her way to one of the bedrooms, only to return moments later with a blanket for him.

"There we go," she smiled softly, wandering towards the kitchen and filling a glass with water, "have you eaten today?"

No reply.

"Dean, have you eaten anything?" She repeated.

Still in the absence of a reply, she turned back to where her friend sat, only to be greeted by the sight of his stupor. Her chest tightened and her stomach churned. She set the water down and put two fingers to his neck, slow pulse. He was still breathing, but his breaths were slow and seemingly irregular.

"Crap," she muttered. "Dean, I need you try and drink this for me," she lifted the glass of water to his lips. He didn't drink, deciding instead to pass out.

She quickly took out her phone and dialled.

"911, what is your emergency." She hung up. Calling an ambulance out to the bunker wasn't the best idea. Instead, she rapped his arm around her shoulders and carried him out to her car; he wasn't nearly as heavy as he used to be. She put him on his side in the back seat, manoeuvring him gently into the recovery position, which was difficult in the small space. Once I the drivers seat, she turned the heat up as far as it could go, before speeding off up the dirty track road for the hospital.

...

She paced back and forth down the corridor. The wait was excruciating. She'd got him to the hospital and they'd rushed him off somewhere. Something about getting the alcohol out of his system before the situation got much worse.

"Miss Granger?" Inquired a doctor, who was tapping on her shoulder.

"Yes, sorry, yes. How's my brother?"

"He should be alright. We pumped his stomach and we've fitted an intravenous drip, just to help regulate his blood sugar and vitamin levels, and get his water topped up. He's asleep now, if you'd like to see him." The doctor gestured for her to follow him.

"We noticed some liver damage, has your brother had a problem with alcohol in the past?" He asked as they walked.

"Ron's been through some tough times, he slipped up. He's been going to AA for a while now, though." She knew 'Ron' wouldn't appreciate her telling the truth and getting sent to some kind of rehab.

"Ahh. Perhaps warn him to be more careful next time." He patted her shoulder and pointed her into Dean's room.

A day later, he woke up. He was a little confused at first, but Charlie explained the situation to him. When she got to the part about coming up with an alias, he almost seemed like the old Dean, half smiling at the dorky names she'd chosen for them. She called the doctor shortly after her explanation.

"Do you know why you're here, Mr Granger?"

He nodded. "Yeah, my sister told me."

"Right, and how are you feeling?"

"Okay, I guess. I could be better."

The doctor smiled encouragingly, "Well, Ronald, The Lord never gives us more than we can handle. Try and get some rest."

Dean clenched his jaw, but it went unnoticed, as the doctor had turned to leave. Charlie adjusted his pillow as he lay down, after telling him to ignore the comment and relax.

"My father may have overestimated what you can handle," a deep, gravelly voice from the corner of the room went unheard amongst the two friends. The angel didn't know how he was back, or why it had taken so long, but he'd make it right. "I will find your brother, Dean."

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**Thanks for reading! It turned out a little darker than I'd expected. I've not published for almost 2 years. This started as a draft for my English class, but I don't know, it turned into a fic. I'd be greatful if you reviewed this. **


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